Crying is Illogical
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Sherlock walks into 221B to find John staring at the telly. Transfixed. And crying. Over a film. Why? Why cry over fictional characters! Sherlock just doesn't understand. T for John's language.


**Crying is Illogical**

Sherlock took the steps two at a time, rounding the landing.

Stupid people. Stupid people and their stupid cases and Scotland Yard's stupid inability to _observe_ what was in front of them. They'd dragged him away from his experiment, to solve the case without leaving Lestrade's office, and now his experiment was ruined.

He continued up the rest of the stairs, pushing the sitting room door open. "John, I'm going to need more-"

He paused, frowning. John had jumped when Sherlock pushed the door open, looking immediately at him. He looked away almost immediately, but not before Sherlock had gathered the evidence.

Red eyes, eyes that were glittering. Runny nose, red from probable repeated snuffling and sniveling. Face red, splotchy. Inability to meet Sherlock's eye for more than five seconds signified embarrassment.

Conclusion: crying. John was and/or had been crying.

"-hydrochloric acid," Sherlock finished, unlooping his scarf from his neck and shoving it into his coat pocket. He shrugged the coat off, pushing the door shut again to hang it up.

Sherlock glanced at the back of John's head, following his gaze. Watching the telly, then. The fact that John didn't watch any weekly programmes except for crap reality shows, none of which should make anyone cry, unless it was from stupidity, it was probably a movie. The time helped to prove it. It was just after the hour, and it was obviously that it wasn't over and it wasn't just beginning, so John had probably gone and rented some stupid movie from the video store.

"What are you watching?"

"_Third Star_," John replied briskly.

"_Third Star_?" Sherlock echoed, drifting up behind John's chair. "Some crap-quality film?"

"Can you not do that?" John muttered, raising a hand to brush at his cheeks.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his flatmate's head.

"That. Your cynicism."

"Okay..." Sherlock raised his eyes to the television. The screen showed four men sitting on a beach, probably one somewhere in Western Britain, Pembrokeshire, perhaps? One of the men was sprawled out, being held by another; sick, then? It wasn't such a difficult leap, considering the general look of that one man and the lack of speaking that the rest of the men were doing. If the man had been simply asleep from exhaustion, there wouldn't have been such an exuding of awkwardness in the scene.

"He's dying." He voiced his conclusions out loud. He didn't voice them as a question, but John answered it, anyway.

"Yes." His voice was choked.

"... And... _why_ are you crying?" Sherlock asked after a moment of watching the film.

"Oh, _fuck_," John muttered. It wasn't in response to Sherlock's question, so Sherlock flickered his gaze back to the television. The dying man was in the ocean, swimming out.

"What?" Sherlock questioned. "What's happening?"

"He can't sw-swim. He can't swim, he's g-got cancer; they're going to l-let him commit suicide...?!"

Sherlock scissored his gaze from the television to John. "This still doesn't explain why you're crying."

"Go away!" John replied sharply. He cupped his hands around his nose and mouth, his eyes fixated on the television. His hands were shaking.

Sherlock scoffed, turning away to the kitchen. Crying over fictional characters was not only irrational, like normal crying was, but it was _illogical_. It was just a fictional character; they weren't real.

Emotional bonds. He would never understand them.

John sniffled from the sitting room, the sound muffled. Trying to cry silently.

Sherlock grabbed the macaroni salad from the fridge and pinched a fork from the drawer, treading, in annoyance, back to his room.

Emotions. He'd just leave those to John.

* * *

**If you haven't seen ****_Third Star_****, you really should. If you have seen ****_Third Star_****, ignore the fact that Benedict-Sherlock is watching Benedict-James on the telly. xD**

**Oh my goodness. ****_Third Star_****. I watched it for the first time last night. It was everything ****_Reichenbach_****, multiplied by three. I was in hysterics at some moments. And sobbing during the next ten. It is a brilliant, beautiful movie and Benedict captured the character perfectly. James laughed; I laughed. James cried; I cried. James screamed; I didn't know whether to cry or cover my ears and look away. All in all, it was beautiful.**

**For those who don't know the plot of ****_Third Star_****, James Griffith [Benedict] was diagnosed with terminal cancer and he and his three friends go on one last journey to find James's favourite place before he dies.**

**Kind of a pointless drabble, but exemplifying Sherlock's inability to connect with emotions [over a fictional character, nonetheless. xD] Reviews are loved. Ta!**


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